


Curls

by sxetia



Category: Persona 1, Persona Series
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Character Study, Detail elaboration, F/F, Headcanon, Other, Pre-P1, Trauma, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 00:22:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20684399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxetia/pseuds/sxetia
Summary: Yuka happens upon Yukino shortly after she’s sown the seeds for her distinctive trademark haircut.





	Curls

**Author's Note:**

> little pre-P1 one shot to elaborate some on my interpretation of Yukino’s haircut in P1, and offer a little extrapolation on my interpretation of who she is and who she’s been.

“Aw, you buzzed it all off.”

Ayase’s pouty remark felt like salt in fresh wounds, that ditzy little voice bringing all of Yukino’s doubts and hesitations to life. She gritted her teeth and muttered a curse under her breath, shoulders scrunching up and head lowering. Why the Hell hadn’t Ayase expressed some sort of affinity or sentiment towards her hair _before_ she decided to bare her scalp to the world around her? Why didn’t she say something, _anything_ to stop her? Most puzzlingly of all, why didn’t Yukino _ask?_ She raised black-nailed fingers to run across her now-bald head and shot a venomous glare back at her kouhai, offering the same look of hot-blooded hatred that she gave anyone and everyone. It was an intimidation method, it was a first strike, it was a defense mechanism. Content as she may have been to dwell on that anger and let that burn keep her warm, something within Yukino melted when she thought of Ayase— much less locked eyes with her. Her hand balled into a trembling fist and her lips pursed tightly before she released a guttural sigh and dropped her hand at her side. She spoke without turning to face Ayase, as if somehow it would stave off the girl getting a good look at her new haircut (or lack thereof). 

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

“What the fuck do you mean, _why?_ Because I wanted to, that’s why. My hair looks like shit.”

“I liked it.”

That single, simple statement struck a chord in Yukino, and for a moment her tough-girl yankī demeanor faltered to reveal the scared, confused girl within: she frowned a little, her eyes widened and face ached as if she wanted to sob. As long as Yukino could remember one of the many reasons her peers opted to single her out as a target for their torment was her hair. It was thick, it was curly, and it was completely untamable. It immediately made her stick out, a nail due to be hammered down. The Japanese school system prided itself on uniformity and homogenization of the whole, and when the faculty failed to fulfill that mission then the students _more_ than picked up the slack. Yukino was different from the beginning; she was the tall, awkward poor girl who tried too damn hard to fit in. Her hair was simply an easy means for her peers to begin tormenting her, cracking away at her exterior at the cracks until they whittled away to her very foundation. _Spool head. Rat’s nest. Why don’t you straighten it? It makes you look like a fool. Do you not wash it? Eww, you look so gross, Mayuzumi._

All their words and invasive touches came crashing back to Yukino at once, and she cringed as she flung herself back into the present. “Yeah, well... nobody else did.” Yuka gave her a puzzled glance and tilted her head to the side, as if contemplating the peculiarity of what Yukino had just admitted. “You did it because everybody else didn’t like it...?” She delivered her inquiry with a casual air of curiousness; conversational as if exchanging gossip on the phone. To boot, she curled one of her own bleach-blonde pigtails around a finger and began to twirl as if it were a telephone cable. Maybe the topic of hair made her reach for her own. “That’s so... not _like_ you, Yukki.” Yukino jerked her head away and set eyes on the grimy toes of her boots, balling both fists again as if holding onto her anger for dear life. _If only you knew just how like me it was._

The decision was almost impulsive; made in a split second after she’d received one jeer too many about the mop of black curls dangling off her head. Yukino had locked herself in the girls’ room of St. Hermelin’s west wing and hunched over the sink, agonizing over her appearance in the mirror. She took a fistful of her hair and held it out perpendicularly to her temple, tugging as tightly as she could so that her strands pulled straight and formed a rigid line from head to hand. When she let go her hair bounced back against her head, wavy and twisted as ever as they brushed and fell against her cheek. Tug, release, tug, release. No matter how hard she pulled or for how long she tried to straighten it out, her hair never failed to maintain its distinctive shape. She wanted to punch the mirror, shatter it with her fist so that it wouldn’t fail her with her own reflection anymore. The razorblades tucked into her breast pocket flickered into the forefront of her consciousness, and so the choice seemed like a logical conclusion to her predicament. Gripping a blade between thumb and finger, she tugged out her hair for a final time before scraping her scalp with the razor and liberating the bushes of black from her body. 

She dropped the lock and let it fall to the floor — and then kept going, stripping herself of her identity one hacking motion at a time. Her aim was rough and demeanor unpracticed; she bled irregularly from her now-bared head as the blade would nick her. 

The pain wasn’t the reason for the tears streaming down her cheeks, though — at least not the physical pain. 

When it was all said and done Yukino slammed the razor down on the countertop and gazed into the mirror again, tilting her head this way and that to admire and admonish her new look. _This is what I did to myself— no, this is what all of **you** did to me._ She hated them all, she held an equal amount of scorn in her gut for each and every single one of them. Nobody was innocent or free of her animosity. When she caressed her own head she already felt the regret begin to dredge up, slowly becoming cognizant of the fact that she’d only receive more grief for being god-damned _bald_ than for having a head full of curly hair. But that was fine — a buzz cut oozed delinquency, it projected to the world that Yukino was _tough_ and _not to be fucked with._ If anybody were to call her bluff she would be screwed, but she quietly banked on intimidation factor to carry her. __

_ _“Hey...?” Ayase asked, tugging slightly on Yukino’s safety pin-riddled sleeve to get her attention. The delinquent blinked once, then twice — back to reality, tugged out of her own head by one of her only honest-to-God friends. At least she could rely on her. “Are you okay...? You looked kinda zoned out.” Yukino sighed and nodded her head, contradicting the frown on her face. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she lied. _ _

_ _Ayase managed a bubbly smile and bounced slightly on her feet, enthused with the evident passing of her senpai’s anguish. “Good...! There’s really no point in brooding over stuff all the time, you know? Now come on, I found this recipe in a baking cookbook that sounds totally cute...”_ _


End file.
